


Nothing Says Love Like A Pinecone In Your Seat (Or A Frog In Your Pocket)

by amfiguree



Category: Backstreet Boys, NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: M/M, Pranks and Practical Jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 01:10:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amfiguree/pseuds/amfiguree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris doesn't do well with little pink drinks.</p>
<p>He especially does not do well with little pink drinks that have umbrellas in them.</p>
<p>He especially, especially does not do well with little pink umbrella-ed drinks after he's had, like, four of them. (Or eight. Or twenty-seven. He's maybe lost count. Maybe.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Says Love Like A Pinecone In Your Seat (Or A Frog In Your Pocket)

"You know 7.30 isn't a real time, right?" Chris says, as Brian reaches over him for his toothbrush.  
  
"It is when you have a multiband world tour to schedule," Brian says, thumb skating briefly over the curve of Chris' shoulder before he pulls away. "And a big award show number."  
  
"I have neither of those things," Chris points out, stifling a yawn. "Jesus. Remind me again why you said I should come for this meeting?"  
  
"Moral support," Brian says easily, around his toothbrush. "If the meeting goes badly, you'll be there on cheer-up duty."  
  
"Lucky me," Chris says dryly. "Am I getting paid for this? I'm getting paid for this, right?"  
  
Brian grins through a mouthful of foam as he shakes his hips and leans into Chris' side. "Of course. Blowjobs and blindfolds, baby."  
  
Chris is appalled when he actually laughs. "Oh, how will I ever resist," he deadpans, as he drops his toothbrush into its glass.  
  
His cell phone's sitting on the night stand when he walks out of the bathroom, and he grabs it as he wades his way through the pile of laundry on the floor.  
  
He plants it between his shoulder and his ear as he looks absently through the closet.  
  
"You have," the voice informs him, primly, "No new voice messages."  
  
"Surprise," Chris snorts, glaring at his wardrobe.  
  
"I'm pretty sure we would've heard it ring in the last ten minutes," Brian says, then, and Chris startles, glancing up guiltily to see Brian slouched in the bathroom doorway, smiling with his toothbrush still caught between his teeth.  
  
Chris snaps his phone shut and slides it into his pocket. "You're going to be late."  
  
It's a little insulting that Brian doesn't even glance at the clock. "No we're not."  
  
"Shut up," Chris says, scowling, and throws a clean shirt at Brian for cover as he beats a retreat from the bedroom.  
  
"So we're still not talking about this?" Brian calls after him.  
  
"What do you want for breakfast?" Chris calls back.  
  
  
  
The thing is, Chris can be a fucking asshole at the best of times, but he does not actually suck at the whole boyfriend thing. Much.  
  
Which is why he has a paper bag of special brownies sitting on the lounge table for when the meeting's over.  
  
At least he did five minutes ago, before he went out to get his laptop from the car (pointedly ignoring Brian's knowing look. And Howie's. And Nick's. And AJ's. Fuck).  
  
"Hey, Marlene?"  
  
The receptionist peers at him from across her desk. "What do you need, honey?"  
  
"Did you see what happened to the paper bag I left on the table?"  
  
Marlene's pitying smile is an uncanny approximation of his mom's. "Sorry, sweetie, Nick must've taken them. You should know better by now, leaving a bag of blondies in the open like that."  
  
"Huh," Chris says. He smothers a grin. "Yeah, guess this one's on me. Thanks, Marlene."  
  
He should probably feel a little guilty about how this is turning out, he thinks.  
  
Instead, he opens his laptop and goes on Twitter.  
  
 _Moral of the day:_ he types into his browser. _Brownie thieves are stupid._  
  
It's almost enough to keep him from swearing at the screen when his email account turns up nothing but twenty-three new spam messages.  
  
  
  
It's only a little while later that Chris is interrupted from hitting the refresh key every couple of seconds by the boys storming back into the lounge. Behind them, the New Kids are filing out of the building. It's dead quiet.  
  
Chris stares.  
  
The top two buttons of Joey's shirt are open. The Knights look gobsmacked. Danny might be bleeding.  
  
Donnie stops, briefly, when he sees Chris through the glass partition, and his eyebrows knit in confusion. Chris smiles back, all teeth, and raises a hand. Donnie flees.  
  
Then Howie's shutting the lounge door and Nick's saying, very loudly, "What. The _fuck_."  
  
"No, seriously," AJ says. Then he walks into the arm of the couch. "Fuck. Ow. What the fuck, man?"  
  
Brian's looking a little unsteady himself, but he drops into a chair without incident and waves a hand in Chris' direction. "Hi."  
  
"Hi," Chris says, as Howie grabs his cup of water--  
  
"Hey," Chris protests.  
  
\--and downs half of it. "Chris," he says, when he sets the cup down. "I am a very, very patient guy. And I love you. But if you keep this up, I swear to God I am going to _kill you_. And I'm going to enjoy it."  
  
"And I'll make him take it slow," Nick snaps.  
  
"Jesus," Chris says. "Relax. It was _brownies_."  
  
"You weren't there," Nick says, darkly.  
  
"They're going to think we're _crazy_ ," Howie groans, and drops onto the couch beside Brian.  
  
"I sang the contract," Brian says. " _All of it_."  
  
"I walked into a fucking wall," Nick moans.  
  
"I threw a pen in Danny's face," Howie adds, miserably.  
  
"And then when they wouldn't sign the contract, AJ gave Joey a l--"  
  
"Do _not_ even go there," Howie interrupts. "Living through it once is more than enough."  
  
"Hey!" AJ objects. "I am awesome at lapdances. He _tipped_ me."  
  
There is a long moment of silence.  
  
"Uh," Chris says, eventually. "Okay. So basically I spend the eve of the eve of my birthday baking you brownies, you guys steal them, and I'm still gonna get shit for it, is what you're saying."  
  
"Yes," Howie says.  
  
"Exactly," AJ says. Then, "Oh, hey, can I get your recipe when Howie's done tearing you apart?"  
  
"Fuck," Nick says. "There's a recipe for this?"  
  
Chris raises an eyebrow. "Just so you know, this is the worst intervention ever."  
  
"It would help if we weren't all fucking high."  
  
"Or giving each other lapdances," Chris adds, grinning at Nick, who's doing his best to fend AJ off without unbalancing him from where he's half-sidled into Nick's lap.  
  
"Oh god," Howie says, as he buries his face in Brian's shoulder. "Stop talking."  
  
  
  
They've made reservations for lunch at a small, nondescript place near the studio, so Chris spends the next thirty minutes continually refreshing his email while the boys sober up.  
  
They're driving separate cars, and Chris makes sure to stand far, far back as Nick gets into his.  
  
Two seconds later, Nick is _shrieking_ , seat-belt catching in his shirt as he tries to tumble out of the driver's seat. _Forever young, I wanna be forever young_ is blaring out of his speakers. Chris can feel the bass throbbing under his feet as he doubles over, wheezing with laughter.  
  
" _Jesus fucking Christ_!" Nick yells, as he scrambles up from the ground and slams the door shut. "Kirkpatrick! What the _fuck_!"  
  
"Oh boy," Howie says.  
  
"Nick," Brian says.  
  
AJ's too busy leaning against the hood of his own car and laughing to chime in with input.  
  
"Don't fucking Nick me!" Nick fumes. "What the _fuck_ , Chris, I just cracked my fucking window with my _elbow_ , asshole!"  
  
AJ just laughs even harder. "You should've seen your _face_."  
  
Chris is still howling.  
  
Brian cracks a tiny, reluctant grin.  
  
"This is not fucking funny!" Nick growls. "I thought the brownies were bad, now it's my _car_. Yesterday it was plastic wrap over the toilet seat - which, hey, _not fucking funny either_ , jackass. The day before that was Spitball day--"  
  
"--and the rubber band in my hair before that--"  
  
"--and the fucking Orajel in my motherfucking toothpaste--"  
  
"--and then the honey on my face--"  
  
"--I thought I was gonna have to shave myself to get it out--"  
  
"--mouth was so numb I thought I was having a fucking stroke--"  
  
"--still finding honey in Rochelle's pillow--"  
  
"--and before _that_ you fucking mooned us _all fucking day_ \--"  
  
"Okay, come on, man," Chris interrupts, still smirking as he wipes his eyes. "The mooning was all Brian."  
  
AJ rolls his eyes.  
  
"What?" Brian says, grinning. "It was funny."  
  
Nick glares at Brian, refusing to be derailed. "Why doesn't he ever try this shit on you?" he demands hotly.  
  
"Because I put out," Brian says.  
  
"Confucius say you don't shit where you eat, man," Chris says, sagely. "Look, I can't help it. Our genius minds make love right alongside our genius bodies. The pranks are inevitable."  
  
"So it's us or your sex life," AJ says, flatly. "This is all starting to make sense."  
  
"That's really not the point right now," Howie points out.  
  
"No!" Nick says, vehemently. "No, it's fucking not! Because the point is that this has been going on for an entire fucking month! Enough is enough!"  
  
"There we go," Chris says, and waves a hand. "This is more the kind of intervention I had in mind. Good progress, guys. Can we get some food now?"  
  
Nick looks like he's two inches away from wrapping his hands around Chris' neck. "We are not going to fucking--"  
  
"Chris," Brian says. "I'm with them on this one."  
  
"--until you stop - what?"  
  
"Traitor," Chris says.  
  
"It's been a month. You're running out of pranks anyway." Brian smiles at him, but it's the smile that says _don't argue with the man you share a bedroom with_ and Chris knows a lost cause when he sees one.  
  
"Fine," he says, loftily. "You all get amnesty."  
  
"Forever?"  
  
"Please," Chris sniffs. "For a week."  
  
"You are such a _fucking--_ "  
  
"We should get going," Brian says, as he herds Chris towards their car. "We're going to be late."  
  
  
  
One of Chris' favorite things about Nick is how hotheaded he is. He loses it twenty times a day (which cracks Chris up), but ten minutes later he's all about forgive and forget, so by the time they get to the restaurant, he's slinging his arm around Chris' neck and ruffling his hair, laughing at the height discrepancy.  
  
Chris doesn't complain much. Eye for an eye and all that.  
  
Nick's grinning as they're seated at their table. "Can you believe how much this place _hasn't_ changed--"  
  
"Since the time we were here for Kevin's anniversary?" AJ finishes.  
  
"I think we were at the same table, too."  
  
"We should call him," Howie says, thoughtfully. "See if he wants to come down for a visit. It's been a while."  
  
"We better find a new place to eat if he says yes," AJ says, as he leafs through the menu. "Because the steak--"  
  
"Oh man," Brian says, wincing. "I'm never going to forget what he said about the steak."  
  
"Or what he did when they brought the wine," Nick adds, and mimes--something, Chris isn't sure if it's a baby cradle or barf.  
  
They all laugh, and Chris feels Brian's hand settle warm on his knee. He tilts his head a little, smiles, and discreetly pulls out his phone to check on Twitter.  
  
He has no new mentions or replies, and Chris tosses his phone on the table with a huff.  
  
"Jesus, Kirkpatrick," Nick says, aiming a grape at him. "You're thirty-nine. You're too old to still be this attached to technology."  
  
Chris rolls his eyes as the grape bounces off his forehead. "Children shouldn't interrupt when the grown-ups are working," he says, and hits Nick with a breadstick.  
  
  
  
"Nick's right, you know," Chris says to Brian abruptly, later that night. It's barely ten, and they're both already in bed, Chris mapping slow patterns on Brian's naked thigh with his thumb. "I'm too old for this shit."  
  
"Huh," Brian says, hazily. If he's disconcerted at all, he's doing a good job of hiding it. "I'm pretty sure they don't put age limits on this."  
  
"Hilarious," Chris says, smacking his hip. "No. I just - this." He gestures vaguely. "All of it. Look, I get what you're trying to do, and I appreciate it, but seriously. I'm too old."  
  
Brian rolls over and traps him under one arm, presses his nose into the base of Chris' neck. "I'm not trying to do anything," he murmurs, into Chris' skin. "You're the one who's been busy punking boybands all month."  
  
"Just the one," Chris agrees, but he doesn't smile. "If you tell me this is all just a cry for attention--"  
  
"It's not," Brian says, without missing a beat. "But you've been moping, and you need to stop."  
  
"It's complicated."  
  
"Chris," Brian says.  
  
"Brian," Chris mimics.  
  
"Chris," Brian repeats.  
  
Chris looks at him that time, and Brian pulls a face: eyes crossed, nose scrunched, lips pursed as he blows a raspberry.  
  
"Freak," Chris says, but he's already laughing, and then Brian's got him bracketed between his hands, his legs, as he presses Chris back into the bed, kissing him slow and wet and dirty.  
  
Which is when Chris' phone starts to buzz.  
  
Chris almost elbows Brian in the throat trying to get to it.  
  
 _One new text message: Get more bang for your buck with A &T--_  
  
"Chris," Brian says.  
  
Chris lets him have the phone as he slumps back into bed, face-down. "Aasidofrgklf."  
  
"Chris," Brian says again. "Hey. Are we talking about this now?"  
  
Chris sighs, throws an arm over his face as he rolls over. "What's to talk about?" he says, flatly. "They aren't calling. I'll suck it up. End of discussion."  
  
Except that's when the phone _rings_ , and Chris' gaze snaps straight to it.  
  
Brian glances briefly at the screen. "It's Marlene."  
  
"Fuck," Chris says, and squeezes his eyes shut as he listens to Brian apologize, "No, no, everything's fine, Chris just can't come to the phone right now."  
  
"Fuck," Chris repeats, emphatically, once Brian hangs up.  
  
There's nothing but quiet for a second, and then Chris feels the bed dip and resettle. When he looks up, Brian's standing over him, eyeing him critically. "Okay," Brian says. "That's it. Up."  
  
Chris stares at him uncomprehendingly. "What?"  
  
"Get up. We're going out."  
  
"What--Brian. It's 10.30."  
  
"Exactly, and this is no way to start a birthday. So get up. We're going out."  
  
  
  
If Chris had known that going out meant little pink drinks, there's no way in hell he would have let Brian talk him out of bed.  
  
Chris doesn't do well with little pink drinks.  
  
He especially does not do well with little pink drinks that have umbrellas in them.  
  
He especially, _especially_ does not do well with little pink umbrella-ed drinks after he's had, like, four of them. (Or eight. Or twenty-seven. He's maybe lost count. Maybe.)  
  
Exhibit A: Germany

> "You gave that pole dancer Justin's number," Joey says.  
>   
>  "And he's underage," JC says.  
>   
>  "I'm underage," Justin echoes, alternating between staring longingly at the lipstick stain on his shirt and staring longingly at his cell phone. "It's totally unfair."  
>   
>  "She was in Brian's lap," Chris says, like that explains anything.  
>   
>  "Lynn is going to kill you," Lance says.  
>   
>  Chris is so out of it that he actually giggles - _giggles_ \- in response, and passes out.  
>   
>  At least until the next morning, when Lynn kicks his fucking hungover ass.

  
Exhibit B: The 2001 Superbowl Afterparty

> "Okay," Lance says, acidly, holding still while JC frets and presses the ice pack to his eye. "So now we know what's _not_ a fun alternative to avoiding Brian's phone calls: _outing yourself_ to a fucking stranger at the bar."  
>   
>  Chris moans and presses his face into JC's lap.  
>   
>  "Dude," Justin says, shoving the phone into Chris' hand. "Just fucking call him already."  
>   
>  "It's been three weeks, cat," JC says, petting Chris' hair with his free hand. "And he's still calling. I think that means you should call him back."  
>   
>  "Seriously," Joey says, as he sucks on his knuckles. His voice is gentle; the words are not. "I don't care how you do it, but you gotta do _something_ , because I don't wanna have to punch someone else out for punching Lance."  
>   
>  "Not gonna happen," Lance snaps. "Because the next time someone tries to grope Chris while he overshares about his epic, one-sided love affair with a Backstreet Boy, I'm going to _let them_."

  
Exhibit C: That Night in Lockup

> No one ever talks about it. On pain of death.  
>   
>  'Nuff said.

  
It is very, very telling that Brian is involved in all three exhibits.  
  
"Thissa prank?" Chris says, suspiciously, when Brian replaces the almost empty glass in his hand with a full one. It sloshes dangerously close to the edge of the rim, but stays mostly out of his lap. And then it tips over as Chris tries to give himself a congratulatory high-five.  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about," Brian says.  
  
Chris snorts, then, because -- okay, yeah, he may be a little tipsy, but he'd have to be a hell of a lot drunker to _not_ be able to decipher Brian's stupid _I'm-pulling-a-fast-one-on-you-right-now-and-you're-going-to-let-me_ grin. But if he thinks Chris is falling for that one again--  
  
"More?" Brian says, innocently, taking his glass.  
  
\--he's probably right.  
  
  
  
It takes three more ( _awesome_ ) umbrella-ed drinks for Brian to decide to cut him off, and Chris grumbles under his breath as they walk back to the car - or, okay, Brian walks, and Chris mostly lolls against his side, tripping over his tongue and feet both - until Brian stops to dig for their keys, and Chris is distracted by the moonlight glinting off the top of Brian's head.  
  
 _Oh_ , Chris thinks, abruptly, and reaches to touch it. "You've got a bald patch," he singsongs.  
  
"Shut up," Brian says, as he drops Chris into the passenger seat, but there's a telltale curve to his mouth that lets Chris know he doesn't mean it.  
  
 _You've got a halo_ , Chris doesn't think.  
  
He's still staring when Brian slides into the driver's seat, and Brian smiles a little when he catches Chris at it, shrugs a shoulder. "Hazards of a mid-life crisis," he sighs, as he starts the engine. "Guess you're gonna have to find a way to live with it."  
  
"'ll stop spiking the shampoo with vodka," Chris mumbles, and closes his eyes to the sound of Brian's quiet laughter.  
  
  
  
Chris isn't sure when he falls asleep, but he must at some point, because when he wakes up they're pulling into a Walmart and Brian's killing the engine.  
  
"Whazza?" Chris says.  
  
"Just need to make a quick stop before we head home," Brian tells him, leaning over to unbuckle his seat belt. "Come on. We're out of toilet paper."  
  
"Not funny," Chris mutters, because it isn't. Brian's jokes are usually a lot better than that. Chris isn't sure he can still feel his feet. He's also sure he has seventeen fingers. That's a good sign he shouldn't be seen in a public place. Especially if it's to buy stuff. Chris has a long, terrible track record with drunk and impulsive.  
  
But then Brian's opening the door and Chris pitches straight into him. "Whoa."  
  
"I got you," Brian says, as he slides a firm arm around Chris' waist and hauls him straight. "I got you, you're fine."  
  
"That's nice," Chris says, but he mostly manages to get his feet beneath him, and to move them when Brian leads him forward.  
  
It's two in the morning, which means that Walmart is totally empty. That's a good thing, Chris thinks fuzzily, as he all but faceplants into another row of cornflakes. Brian tugs him closer, gentle but firm, and saves him from the oatmeal. Brian is having too much fun with this, Chris thinks, the touching and the manhandling shit, especially, and there will probably be teasing in the morning, but right now Chris doesn't even care.  
  
Brian's laugh is just as warm as the rest of him.  
  
"You're pretty," Chris says decisively, as Brian drops a head of lettuce into their basket with his free hand.  
  
"Okay, Chris," Brian says, grinning at him, and fuck, yeah, that is a lot of _really, stupidly pretty_ right there, and it would be a dumbass move to _not_ lean up and kiss him. So Chris does, only he's not quite steady enough to get anything but the corner of Brian's chin.  
  
Brian breathes another laugh, and Chris is already heady with it, heady and drunk and horny and ready to make out with his boyfriend, dammit, and--and Brian must have special mind-reading powers because that's when he pushes Chris back against the full rack of oatmeal and kisses him breathless, soft and sweet and warm.  
  
"Think we're done here," he murmurs, when they pull away a (not-long-enough) minute later.  
  
"Mmm," Chris says. His mouth is tingling. And his skin. And his toes.  
  
The cashier stares at them when they go to the counter with their purchases - milk, condoms, and fresh lettuce - and Chris just laughs.  
  
  
  
He starts to think that he's maybe being played, though, when Brian bundles him back into the car.  
  
"S'this 'cause of the thing?" he slurs, as he flops into the passenger seat, Brian's arm still nice and solid around his shoulders. "With Nick? That thing? The old thing?"  
  
Brian raises an eyebrow. "You mean, did I take you grocery shopping on the eve of your birthday to remind you that you're not actually that old?"  
  
"Uh," Chris says, contemplatively, his eyes already sliding half-shut. "Yeah. That. The thing."  
  
"Maybe a little," Brian says.  
  
"S'nice," Chris says, and leans into Brian's hand when it settles, briefly, over the curve of his jaw.  
  
  
  
The next time Chris wakes up, he's back at the house, in bed, and his pants are vibrating.  
  
Chris groans into his pillow as he fumbles for his phone. "Mprfh?"  
  
"Did you want this?"  
  
"Wha?"  
  
"Christopher Alan--"  
  
Chris blinks awake at that, then regrets it immediately. Jesus _fuck_ , his head is _pounding_. "Joey?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
The pounding recedes to a low roar. "Hey," Chris says, sitting up a little. "Uh. It's four in the morning, man."  
  
"Kloey's teething," Joey says, and that's all the explanation Chris needs. "I heard the news."  
  
"The what?" Chris says. He is not equipped to deal with this right now.  
  
"You and Brian doing okay?"  
  
"What?" Chris repeats. He presses one hand to his forehead like that might help make the conversation make more sense. Or make his headache go away. One or the other. It doesn't.  
  
"You and Brian," Joey says, more slowly. "Everything okay?"  
  
"Uh," Chris says. He turns to check: Brian's passed out in bed beside him, snoring gently. "Yeah, everything's great."  
  
"Yeah?" Joey says, carefully, like that's not the answer he'd been expecting. "You sure?"  
  
Chris frowns as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and goes out into the living room. "Yes," he says, once the bedroom door is closed. "Yeah, I'm fucking sure. That's what I said, isn't it? Jesus, what the hell, Joe?"  
  
Joey's quiet for a second. Then he sighs. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? You're right. That's what you said, and I don't wanna fight on your birthday--uh, happy birthday, by the way."  
  
Chris rolls his eyes. "Did I ever tell you that your biggest asset is your timing?"  
  
"I thought it was my charming personality," Joey retorts, and for a second it's almost like--  
  
"Joe," Chris says. "Why'd you call?"  
  
"Come on, man. I know we haven't been big on communication lately--"  
  
Chris snorts.  
  
"But seriously, did you think I was gonna do this over voicemail?"  
  
Chris doesn't reply.  
  
"You thought I was gonna do this over voicemail?" Joey says. "Jesus, you idiot."  
  
"Joey--"  
  
"No, shut up, I don't even have words for you right now," Joey says. "Okay, I gotta go, 'cause Kloey's crying again, but I'm heading into LA next week, and when I get there, I'm going to beat some sense into you, and then you're showing me around town."  
  
Joey taking charge is exactly like it used to be, warm and familiar, and Chris has to fight back a smile despite the annoyance, despite all of it.  
  
"Sure," he says, because that's the _only_ thing you say to Joey Fatone in situations like this.  
  
"I'll text you with details," Joey says, and he sounds vaguely apologetic when he adds, "Go back to bed, Chris."  
  
When Joey hangs up, Chris stares at his phone. He feels a little like he's been hit by a truck.  
  
  
  
He's still reeling from Joey's call when his phone lights up again, buzzes happily in his hand as he shakes his head in disbelief.  
  
"C?"  
  
"Congratulations, birthday boy," JC singsongs, and suddenly it's all Chris can do _not_ to laugh.  
  
"Thanks, C."  
  
"Is Brian around? I should probably congratulate him too."  
  
Chris almost says _'what?'_ , but then decides he really doesn't want to know. It's C. It's probably about aliens. "He's sleeping, C. It's four-thirty in the morning."  
  
"Shit," JC says. "Sorry, cat. I just got out of the studio and heard the news, you know? I didn't even check the time."  
  
"Yeah," Chris says, because that last part? That part he really does know.  
  
"I've just been so caught up doing all this writing lately," JC says, earnestly. "I keep meaning to call and then I fall asleep at my desk and forget."  
  
"Yeah, I seem to remember being there for that once or twice," Chris says.  
  
JC laughs at that, not ashamed at all. "You should come visit me sometime," he says. "I want to hear what you think about my new stuff."  
  
"C," Chris says, laughing himself. "You can play it for me over the phone."  
  
"You need to be here to feel the vibe, Chris," JC says. "And it's been a while since the last time we hung out. I miss you, man."  
  
It's almost embarrassing, how easily Chris gives in after that.  
  
  
  
JC keeps him on the phone for an hour, rambling about dreams and the studio and Katy Perry, and Chris is torn between laughing and hanging up when JC starts talking about brainstorming for ways to combine the three in a new song. Thankfully, Chris' phone vibrates before he has to decide.  
  
"C, I have another call coming in."  
  
"It's probably Justin calling to congratulate you too," JC says. "I'm going to bed. Love you, man."  
  
"Yeah," Chris says quietly, just before he hangs up. And when he checks his caller ID, he can't even be all that surprised when it turns out to actually _be_ Justin.  
  
"Chris?"  
  
"Justin, hey."  
  
"Hey."  
  
An awkward, lengthy silence passes, and finally, Chris clears his throat. "Uh, what're you doing up?"  
  
"Oh, uh, I'm just--" If anything, Chris takes comfort in the fact that they're both being fucking girls about this. "I just got back from a night shoot."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Yeah," Chris says again. "Movies, man. What're you gonna do?"  
  
"...Are you thinking about that night shoot we did for _On The Line_?"  
  
"Well, I wasn't," Chris groans. "But now I am. Fuck. You're an asshole."  
  
Justin laughs. "I don't know why any of us ever thought that would be a good idea."  
  
 _Fan service,_ Chris wants to say, or something equally flippant. Instead what comes out is, "I guess being in a five-man band gives you a different kind of perspective."  
  
"I guess so," Justin says, very, very quietly.  
  
Chris listens to him breathe for a minute, remembering.  
  
Eventually Justin says, "Look, Chris--"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"I just - you're happy, right? With - with all of it, everything."  
  
Chris pauses for a second, glancing back at the closed bedroom door. "Yeah, J," he says gently, surprised by how much he means it. "Everything's good."  
  
Justin lets out a long breath. "Well--good. I never meant - what I did, before. It wasn't supposed to -- I just wanted everyone to end up happy, you know?"  
  
It's the closest to an apology Justin's ever going to get, and Chris is silent for a long second, fighting down the sudden tightness in his chest. "Jesus," he says finally. "You couldn't have called a little later?"  
  
There's a buzz of static from Justin's end of the line. "What?"  
  
"Seriously," Chris says. "Lance hasn't called yet; you know he's gonna fucking bitch me out, man. You couldn't have called half an hour later, saved all this mushy shit for last?"  
  
Justin breaks out in a surprised little laugh, more breath than sound. "Yeah, well," he says. "Didn't want to ruin his fun."  
  
"What, you're taking his side? Okay, Junior, it's obviously past someone's bedtime."  
  
"Shut up, Mom," Justin retorts, blithely, and the smile in his voice makes Chris grin. There's another brief pause. "So, uh--I'm gonna let you go now."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Since it's past my bedtime and everything."  
  
"Gotcha."  
  
"So goodnight, I guess."  
  
"Yeah," Chris says. "Night, J."  
  
"Filming doesn't start till late tomorrow," Justin adds, before Chris can hang up, the words stringing together in a rush. "I could call in the afternoon, if you're up for it. Feed you more of that mushy bullshit you love so much."  
  
There's that fucking burn in his chest again. "Yeah, well," Chris manages. "A little practice never hurt anyone. You're kinda rusty."  
  
"Yeah," Justin says, and Chris can hear the smile in his voice. "Oh, hey."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Happy birthday, man."  
  
  
  
True to form, Lance calls ten minutes after Justin hangs up. "Are you out of your mind?"  
  
"Hey, Lance."  
  
"What the fuck were you thinking?"  
  
"Yeah, it's really good to hear from you too. It's only been, what, two, three months? No, you're right, you're right, nothing's going to change the deep bond of friendship we share. And you remembered my birthday too? Gee whiz, that's swell! Thanks Lance! You're the best friend ever!"  
  
"Oh come off it, Kirkpatrick," Lance snaps. "I didn't see you picking up the phone either."  
  
"Okay, now that we've done the pleasantries, give it to me straight; are you going to spend the next hour yelling at me for no reason? Because we can skip straight to the hanging up part."  
  
"Nice to see you taking this seriously."  
  
"What else am I supposed to do?" Chris asks. "So it sucks I'm turning thirty-nine, big whoop. I happen to think that--"  
  
"This has nothing to do with forty being the new thirty," Lance says testily. "This is about the paparazzi being all over you in Walmart while you're apparently drunk and _making out with your boyfriend_ , you fucking exhibitionist."  
  
Chris' brain grinds to a jarring halt. "What?"  
  
"What do you mean, wha-- _oh_." Lance pauses. "Has Joey called?"  
  
"Uh, yeah."  
  
"And C?"  
  
"And Justin," Chris affirms, weakly.  
  
"And none of them actually told you, did they?"  
  
Chris shakes his head in the calm of total horror. "What were they supposed to tell me?"  
  
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Lance says. "Check your email."  
  
  
  
They've never read like your typical romance novel, him and Brian, and Chris is okay with that.  
  
He's not really the leading man type of guy.  
  
He's not really the type of guy who wants that bit of information _splashed all over the tabloids_ , either.

** BACKSTREET BOY NOW IN SYNC: BOYBAND RIVALRY GONE POOF? **

  
The headline's huge, plastered across the front page over a blown-up, overexposed photo of him and Brian making out in Walmart. Against a fucking row of _oatmeal_ , Jesus.  
  
"Fuck."  
  
His phone beeps, then; it's a text message from Lance: _happy birthday, by the way._  
  
" _Fuck._ "  
  
  
  
Chris is not proud of the fact that he spends the next three hours sitting at the kitchen table, just staring at his laptop like he can make the article disappear with the power of his mind. He's running circles inside his head, his migraine getting steadily worse, wondering why the hell and how and oh fuck, the _tour_ \--  
  
"Morning," Brian says, coming around to press a kiss to the underside of Chris' jaw, and Chris almost jumps out of his skin. "Happy birthday."  
  
"Uh," Chris says, faintly. "Hold that thought." And then, "I think there's something you should see. The tabloids--"  
  
Brian freezes. "How did you find out?"  
  
For the millionth time that morning, Chris' gawks at nothing. "How do _I_ \-- _you know_?"  
  
Brian sinks slowly into the seat beside him, drumming his fingers lightly on the table. "Well, considering I spent all night fielding phone calls after you went to bed, yeah. I know."  
  
"Oh, shit," Chris says. "Shit, what are people saying?"  
  
"It varies between congratulations and what the hell were we thinking," Brian admits.  
  
"That's basically what my boys said," Chris says, without thinking. "Fuck."  
  
"What?" Brian says.  
  
"What?" Chris echoes, finally looking up from his screen.  
  
Brian's staring at him, eyes wide and blue and hopeful. "They called?"  
  
"They called," Chris says. He isn't sure which one of them starts smiling first.  
  
"Finally," Brian says, reaching over to squeeze Chris' shoulder.  
  
"Huh," Chris says, watching him carefully. "You don't seem too upset about this. Or surprised. Or--" Brian's mouth twitches, just a hint.  
  
"Holy _shit_ ," Chris says, with sudden clarity. "You planned this."  
  
"I planned this," Brian says, with a grave nod. Then he grins. "I wasn't sure it was going to work, but I figured if there was anything that would get them to call, a tabloid scandal was my safest bet."  
  
Chris is still gaping. "You _planned_ this."  
  
"You spent an entire month obsessed with your cell phone," Brian says. "I had to do _something_."  
  
"Jesus," Chris breathes. "This is a pretty big something."  
  
"Not really," Brian says, and shrugs when Chris frowns at him. "I mean it. It's nothing I didn't already want to do. I know the last time we talked about this I said I wasn't ready--"  
  
"Yeah, but you've clearly changed your mind," Chris says, dumbly, turning back to stare at his laptop. "Brian--"  
  
"Chris," Brian interrupts. "It's not a big deal anymore. Our families know. Our boys. All the people who matter. It was always when, not if. Now's when. Two birds, one stone. If the price is letting the paparazzi stalk us for a while... it's nothing we're not used to."  
  
"That's easy for you to say," Chris snorts. "You're going back on tour in a couple of months. They're gonna assume we broke up and I'm going to be the one they catch wallowing in misery."  
  
"About that," Brian says, reasonably - _reasonably_ , like this isn't going to take PR a shit storm and a half to clear up - "I was thinking you could come with us. If you want."  
  
Chris jerks his head up. "Ha ha," he almost says, on reflex alone, but he has all of Brian's smiles cataloged by now, and this one is slanted too much to the left for _Genius Prankster_. "You're serious," he says, instead.  
  
"I would never joke about something as serious as a tour," Brian says, solemnly. The angle of his smile doesn't change.  
  
"Me," Chris says. "On tour. With you."  
  
"Leigh and James are going to be with us," Brian points out. "AJ's asked Rochelle and Nick's practically packing Lauren's bag for her."  
  
"Oh," Chris scoffs. "Well, in that case." He slides his laptop across the table. "You could've just told me you needed someone to keep your bed warm for you."  
  
Brian doesn't take the bait. "I figured if they all get to bring family," he says, with a shrug, easy as you please. "Then so do I."  
  
Chris can't help it; he kisses him. "Well, when you put it like that." Brian laughs, and Chris kisses him again, hands cupped around his face. "We'll be having sex 24/7, you know that, right? We're going to run out of pranks."  
  
"Run out?" Brian says. "Please. I give it two days before they put you on the New Kids bus."  
  
Chris glares as he opens his mouth to argue, then pauses, thoughtfully. "Huh," he says, at last. "A fresh audience."  
  
This time, Brian's smile says _Master Genius Prankster Extraordinaire_ , with a side of _fair's fair_ to boot. "I hear Donnie really freaks out over his hair."  
  
"Happy birthday to me," Chris says, grinning wickedly as he tugs Brian towards the bedroom. "I vote we start brainstorming for new pranks right now. Also, I need to work off this hangover."  
  
"Man," Brian laughs. "You are the easiest birthday boy _ever_."


End file.
